Frazzled with Bob, Babbs and Mac: Continuing Thoughts on Legacy

I graduated from seminary 30 years ago this month (I was quite young at the time, really!).  I have just completed my 30^th academic year in campus ministry.  At times it is hard to believe that 30 years have gone by so quickly.  Then again, when I look back at those early days, it is very clear that it was a long, long time ago – maybe even a lifetime or two – especially when I see how much I have changed in those years.

Original glassart based on "storm at sea" quilt block pattern

I must say that the last few years I have been struggling at several levels with my life and ministry.  I wonder whether or not I am still effective in ministry.  I look at the weeks at a time when it feels like I am on a roller coaster ride and I am just looking ahead to the day when it will be done and I can get enough sleep and some time to just sit and rest.  It seems like those periods of time are more frequent and that I am frazzled more than I am not.   

There are books that I have read that seem to identify the place that I am spiritually and in ministry.  I resonate with the authors and I strive to be able to move into the place of peace and harmony in the midst of ordinary and extraordinary chaos.  There are three of these writers that I can think of off the top of my head.  We will call them Bob, Babbs and Mac.  The reason that I started reading their stuff was because they were like me, active pastors… except for the fact that they were pastors of big churches, and they were able to find time to write inspiring and insightful books, and they were famous…   But now, I look at Babbs and Mac and Bob and all three of them are no longer actively pastoring in churches.  The answer to their struggles with how ministry got in the way of their relationship with God seems to have been to leave the pastoral ministry.  Fortunately for them, they are famous and can make a living on writing and speaking – don’t get me wrong, I still find what they write and speak about very helpful.  But in the back of my mind I keep wondering if there is another answer for the pastor who is finding the ministry is getting in the way of her relationship with God, other than leaving the pastoral ministry – especially if she is not famous and hasn’t figure out how to consistently post on her blog, let alone write a book!

After 30 years of pastoring in a university setting I have times that I wonder, do I really want to keep doing this?  And then, if I make a change, how big of a change do I want to make?  Should I find another campus ministry setting, should I move into a more traditional church pastorate?  Should I see if there is an opening at Starbucks?  It is when I am wondering these things and I read the wisdom of Mac and Bob and Babbs (and find it helpful) that I feel a little bit betrayed by them.  That is also about the time that something exciting happens in the context of my ministry, often along the edges or in the unexpected places, that makes me think that maybe I can keep doing this for another day or two.  Meanwhile, I will continue to try to figure out how to keep the ministry from getting in the way of my relationship with God, and trying to do the things that I already know could help.

A St. Barnabas Day Story

As I post this it is still St. Barnabas Day in L.A. where the story took place. The names may possibly have been changed.

                There are times when I would like to think that Barnabas, when he was in Antioch, would end a summer's day by going to the roof to enjoy the last rays of sun as it set, feeling the accompanying cooler breezes.  As he sat there relaxing, maybe for the first time all day I can imagine him starting to smile, shaking his head and maybe even laughing as he thought about the impossible variety of people who were already a part of the community of Christ-followers that had come together in that place.  Not just Jews from all over the Roman world, but gentiles as well, people from all economic backgrounds – business people, farmers, government officials, people who owned big homes and people who worked in them.  Slave and free, male and female, educated and “street-smart”—all sorts of people were a part of this group that was beginning to be identified as “Christians.” 

                Every once in a while we see this variety in our churches:  people you just wouldn’t imagine even talking with one another, committed to be a family of sorts in Christ.  It makes me think of Les and 

Carlos, both a part of the motley crew (Carlos was possibly more “motley” than Les) that was Temple Baptist Church at the time I was Co-pastor. 

The Les and Vina Tamblyn Window

 

Les was a pillar.  He was the church Finance Officer.  He was a typical member of the Builder generation.  He came from modest roots, fought in WWII, came back and got married, worked his way up in a bank, had kids, went to church and retired to a nice home in the suburbs of Los Angeles.  He saw Temple from the days of downtown society church through the shift of white people not wanting to come to the inner city for church, to ministering to new immigrants and people from the Union Rescue Mission.  He went from being a church trustee that managed the Los Angeles Philharmonic Auditorium (owned and operated by Temple Baptist Church) to times when it was difficult to maintain such property and finally selling out and rebuilding near downtown in the area around USC.  He was one who stayed, which meant that he caught the vision of the church in transition and didn’t go out to find a church in the suburbs (where he lived) filled with people like him.

Carlos was a teenager, he may have been born in Mexico and brought to LA as a young child, or he may have been born in the US.  His parents were definitely immigrants.  I don’t know if they were here legally.  I never knew unless I needed to.  His parents were hard-working and church-going.  They were members of the Spanish-speaking congregation of our church.  Some of the kids in that congregation ended up in our youth group.  Carlos was one.  I don’t know why, but Carlos was in a gang.  He was not in one of the really hardcore gangs, but a gang, nevertheless.  He told me about how easy it was to get a gun.  I don’t think he ever used one, but I don’t know for sure.  He definitely got into trouble.  But he came to church, because of his parents, yes, but I think also because he actually liked being a part of church.  It was like he was trying to decide which way to go, so he had a foot in each life.

One day we were in groups of three.  It was one of those meetings…or workshops…I don’t remember.  I even have a vague recollection that I may have been leading that meeting, or, at least, that exercise.  Anyway we were in groups of three and I was with Les and Carlos.  Les was in his typical dark suit, white shirt and tie.  Carlos was in his baggy dark jeans and striped polo (he dressed up for church).  The assignment was to share about a time that you felt like you heard God speaking to you. 

Les began.  He told of being on guard duty while in the army on Christmas Eve.  He was far away from family and he was lonely and homesick.  He told of looking up at the sky and seeing the stars and hearing God say that he was not alone.  God was with him and God loved him.  As Les told the story his eyes filled and a tear came down his cheek.  He seemed to have been transported back 50 years to that night.

Then it was Carlos' turn.  I can still hear his voice, with his LA –Chicano “accent.”  With every ounce of sincerity and seriousness he said, “Well, one night when I was sitting in jail and I was alone, I heard God say to me, ‘Well, Carlos, that was pretty stupid.” 

I don’t remember at all what I shared.  I do remember a connection that was made between a traditional, white, hard-working, up-standing banker and a teen-age, Hispanic, pseudo-gang-banger, who had both heard God speak to them.  To this day, I still shake my head and laugh.

There Are Better Beaches

“So we go all the way to Kauai and we are looking to go to the beach.  We have the book The Ultimate Guide to Kauai and the best food places are marked with ‘Ono’ (which is a good thing) and the best sights are marked with a ‘Gem.’  We are doing our best to eat at all the ‘Onos’ and see all the ‘Gems.’  This requires serious planning and a strict schedule.  We are only able to stay and see some places for 12 minutes here, 38 minutes there, and so on. 

“We have saved one of the ‘Gems’ for our last day.  It is a beach called Mahaulepu.  We follow the directions which takes us to a dirt road.  At first it is not that bad.  Then we get to a spot where it says that the speed limit is 15 mph.  This is going to throw us off schedule, but, after all, it is one of the ‘Gems’ so we will do our best to adapt our schedule, a little less time whale watching at Shipwreck beach (hopefully the whales have gotten the advance copy of our schedule) and a shorter time at the Brick Oven Pizza place.  But then we realize that the 15 mph is actually more of a goal than what is actually possible on the incredibly rutted and muddy road and it is going to take even longer.  We continue to maneuver our way around huge potholes and mud pools, trying not to get car sick, or damage the rental car, continuing to adjust our schedule… skip the whale watching, call ahead for the pizza…

“Finally, we get to Mahaulepu Beach!  This is supposed to be a ‘Gem???’  There is hardly any beach there, mostly rock and cliffs!  The waves are nothing because of the coral reefs that are breaking up the surf!  There are pools of water but they are full of crabs and other sea life!  There is one really nice section of sand, but, wouldn’t you know, there is a monk seal lying there and the area is roped off so no one will disturb its slumber!  I, frankly, don’t even think it is alive!  And it sure is ugly! 

“Every time I try to get a picture of the place (which is necessary for my scrapbook showing that we made it to all the Gems and Onos) there would be a rainbow in the way!!  I know that Hawaii is a pro-gay marriage state, but must they flaunt it???

“After the allotted 13 minutes we go back in the car and began our journey back to the paved road.  At this point we were going to have to get the pizza to go and eat it in the car on the way to Hilo Hattie’s to get our free souvenir  tote bag that changes colors when it gets wet!  On the way back we are telling every car that we pass to turn around and not bother with this one…  There are better beaches!”

We smiled, said “thank you” and rolled up our window.  We watched in the rear-view mirror as their car bounced through a pothole, adding to the reddish-brown mud accumulating on their car.  Then we continued on to see the “Gem” for ourselves.  Our conclusion…

There are better beaches…but not many.

(The previous conversation is very loosely based on a true encounter on the dirt road to Mahaulepu).

Some Random Thoughts At Christmas Time

A week of finals and a semester are over.  One dining hall remains open for those students who have yet to leave campus for winter break.  Several inches of snow lay on the ground outside and students relax as they eat dinner together among the holiday decorations around them. 

There are plenty of parking places on the streets of campus and the nearby village of coffee houses, bars and fast food joints is rather empty for a Saturday night.  As we drive across town to visit a friend in the hospital we move from the campus area through the historic downtown and into the older neighborhoods in town.  It feels like we have moved back in time, to the Christmases depicted in the movies we enjoy at this time of year.  Driving past some of the small houses with simple Christmas decorations and snow covering eaves and hanging from trees, you expect to see George Bailey briskly walking down the street followed by Clarence, the not-yet-winged angel.  Or maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of a “fishnet-stocking-d,” one-legged lamp shining in a window!  Having grown up in Los Angeles where it never quite snowed, this was what Christmas used to look like in my mind’s eye.  Now I live here.

As we turn into the parking lot of the new, multi-storied hospital, it seems strangely calm and quiet.  As we come into the large lobby and move toward the elevator, it is impossible to miss the sight of the tall, beautifully decorated Christmas trees.   There are signs of the holidays everywhere in the halls and the waiting areas.  It seems, in a way, an attempt to contrast what people there might be feeling as they are on their way to the room of a sick, and possibly dying loved one.  I think to myself that maybe this is no place for such decorations.  And yet, wouldn’t it be strange to not have them there?   Christmas is a wonderful time of year—that is, until sadness, loss and disappointment move in.  Then the contrast seems to make things even worse.  I’ve had those Christmases, where my theme song becomes, “I wish I had a river to skate away on;” Christmases where it took everything I had to keep from announcing to everyone, “That’s it!  We are putting away all the decorations right now!”  It’s just not fair to have these things break into the joy of Christmas!  And so as I walk past the rooms of people spending this time in the hospital I remember the feelings of occasional sadder Christmases of the past.

Conversation in the car with my husband lightens the mood as we head back across town to our own neighborhood.  As we drive up to our house, all wrapped in snow, with the warmth of the Christmas decorations shining through the front picture window I am happy to be home.  It has been a fast-paced, busy day… and semester.  It is nice to enjoy a change of pace, times with family and friends, eating, sharing gifts, messages and songs of Advent and Christmas at church and more relaxed times together.  But I know that not everything is perfect.  Even in this house there are moments of anxious and sad feelings, wonderings about how things are and how they will be, times of disappointment and doubt.  But for a moment of quiet, I sit enjoying the warmth of the season, a moment of stillness, where I am not in the past or the future, not in a holiday movie or in a dream of what Christmas is supposed to be like,  just right here, right now. 

And in that moment, I remember once again, that Christmas is a celebration of something deep, something that transcends the good times of holidays as well as the sadness and disappointment that, when present at this time of year, are magnified by the contrast.  Once again I am aware of a God that has broken into our life and world, just as it is--a God that is present in joy and in sorrow… the One who brings peace that passes all understanding.  

And so are some of my random thoughts this Christmas season.

Legacy and the Women's Restroom - First in an occasional series on "Legacy"

Recently I brought my new Intern into the women’s restroom with me.  Even though she had not been with me for long, I immediately liked her and quickly grew to trust her.  So I decided that I would pass on to her something that not many at the Found know.  I showed her how to change the toilet paper roll.  I informed her that I could now rest knowing that if something were to happen to me, this vital information will not die with me.

            This makes me think about legacy.  In the 65 year history of the Baptist Student Foundation at Purdue I am the third Pastor/Director.  The first one built the building and the sanctuary is named for him.  The second one acquired more property and built a significant endowment fund and the kitchen and café area is named after him.  I have a funny feeling that it would be a tossup as to whether to name the boiler room or the women’s restroom after me.  

            Not long after I got to the Found I went into the restroom after Bible study.  It was after 10 pm.  I found that we had a new water feature that I was not aware had been added.  It’s not what you are thinking.  We had a waterfall coming down the inside wall opposite the stalls.  It was coming through the roof.  The roof is shaped in a V (the result of the drug culture of the early sixties impacting the architect community – but I digress).  That night the snow that had gathered in the bottom-of-the-V spot began to melt too quickly, as we had had an unusually warm day.  That was the beginning of a few years of trying to figure out the quick fixes to our roof problem, to avoid the excitement of going to the restroom in the rain.  Finally we got a new roof and for the most part have not had waterfalls in the bathroom or elsewhere. 

I didn’t know what a boiler room was until I got to the Found.  I was from L.A. and had never met a boiler (at least not knowingly).  My predecessor taught me how to turn it on in the late fall when the temperature stopped going up into the 60’s each day, and how to turn it off in the spring when it seemed like the temperature was done dipping down to near freezing.  It was a matter of flipping two switches on a box on the wall just within my reach.  I developed a kind of liturgy for turning on the boiler for the year.  I would make the determination that it was time to turn on the boiler, usually after noticing that people were keeping their coats on during worship on Sunday morning.  I would pray as I walked down the stair to the boiler room and turned on the light.  I would look at the nearly 60-year-old machine with respect and fear.  I would read the directions on the switch box, a couple of times, just in case there was new information added since the last time that I had engaged in the ritual.  Finally, I would take a deep breath and hold it, stand in the doorway and reach over and flip the two switches in their proper order.  Then I would quickly move out of the door and behind the wall listening for the whoosh of the pilot lighting and turning on the boiler, praying, of course, that it would not blow up the building.  Turning the boiler off in the spring was not as traumatic.  Then it was a matter of deciding that the weather was not going to turn cold again at some point in late April.

            A few years ago the boiler started going out.  We would get it started again, but it became clear that we needed a new one.  So we gathered the troops and, due to the generosity of many people we gathered enough money to buy a car or two and put it toward the big, ugly, messy, expensive job of replacing the old “Darth Boiler.”

So as I think about legacy, well, what will people remember of the “Zambrows Years” at the Found?  I guess if you really think about it, as unglamorous as these rooms are they are really important.  On a 10 degree day you want the boiler to be working.  And, well, no matter the temperature, you always want a functioning women’s (and men’s) restroom. 

And, though there is a lot more to say about legacy, at least for now I can rest easy knowing that there is at least one other person who knows how to change the toilet paper roll.